


Warp and Weft

by baranduin



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Post-Quest, Tol Eressëa, Undying Lands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After living on Tol Eressea for some years, Frodo comes to another crossroad in his life. He finds he has (and has had) some assistance from unlooked-for sources.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Begin at the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is currently unfinished. While I know what the ending is, I've been stuck for a couple of years on how to get there, so I don't know if I will actually finish it.

__

The lengthwise threads attached to a loom before weaving begins is the warp. The weft is woven back and forth through the warp to make fabric. Warp means "that which is thrown across" (old English). (From Wikipedia.com)

* * *

_"Why does it always come back?"_

The pain was in his shoulder again, that familiar iron icicle—sharp and cold, aching and bone deep. Surely the jagged point was still embedded in his flesh and had never been removed; that it had been was the dream.

_"Is it October again?"_

Frodo held the crystal pendant in his hand tightly enough so that its edges bit into his palm. He had to do that. Only when he squeezed that hard did it do some good; that is, only then was he able to lose consciousness.

_"Sam? Rose?"_

* * *

Frodo came back to consciousness slowly, reluctantly. He was always unwilling at first, once he realized that he _had_ been unconscious and was now returning to the waking world with all its bitter memories and losses. And he returned to its joys and victories; there had been many of those, too, though he was not eager to admit it at the moment.

At first, the reappearing material world held only the vaguest inklings for him, for he had no awareness of his body and its senses. He felt nothing, either cold against his skin or warmth in his beating heart. That was actually always the best part of these episodes, that sort of floating nothingness. He knew he still lived and that comforted him, but beyond that, nothing was required of him. It was restful.

This time, though, it was different. Usually, he eventually became aware of sound—Bilbo pottering around their strange yet homely house on the hill, bird song, the melodious voices of elves who stopped by to inquire into the Ring-bearer's well-being.

But this time there was no sound other than his own breathing. Instead of returning voices, he grew aware of a coolness at his back that had a solidity to it. He was lying on stone rather than on his comfortable bed. For a moment, fear clutched at him, shocking in its intensity after all that emotionless drifting. Was he back in the barrow?

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no hint of the barrow here, neither dank soil nor dreary voice come to mutter at him for his warm skin and living breath.

When he turned his head, his cheek brushed against cool stone, smooth enough that it had to be polished though it was too dark to tell exactly what it was. It appeared that he was lying on some sort of bench that was set next to a wall, also made of stone but not quite so polished. It was not rough when he stretched out his hand to investigate it in that it did not scrape his knuckles or feel rough against his palm, but it did not have quite the finished polish that the bench did.

Which seemed sensible, he said to himself as he swung his legs over the side of the bench and sat still for a minute, his palms pressed flat against the seat and his feet dangling while he gathered his wits about him.

It was dark about him though he could see the faint outline of his hand if he held it before him. But he had no idea where the source of light was coming from for he saw no windows. There was just this hint of areas that were darker and lighter in a regular pattern. He thought that perhaps he was in a hall of some sort.

He was curious and apprehensive but not exactly afraid. That much was clear to him, that he need not be afraid in this place. But it was very strange to him.

Then again, he could still be unconscious. That had happened to him before—and not just to him, to all his kin and friends. It had been quite a topic for discussion in the Green Dragon once upon a time (and still was for all he knew). It had been a sort of game to see who had had the strangest dream that had not seemed like a dream at all until it did seem like a dream but then maybe it didn't. Like the time Pippin thought he'd been trapped inside the Mathom House at Michel Delving, forced to inventory everything to Lobelia's specifications. Pippin was sure he had dust on his hands; he'd held them up to his nose and smelled the mustiness when he woke up, he said, but then maybe he hadn't woken up at that point though it had felt like it, especially the part when he'd gotten out of bed (or dreamed he'd gotten out of bed). And so on.

They would go back and forth in a sort of there and back again rambling conversation punctuated by shouts of laughter and many mugs of the innkeeper's best brew. The conversation usually ended abruptly when one of the older folk (the Gaffer was quite prone to doing this) gave them a quick bang on the head and a barked, "That'll be enough of that. There ain't no call to go traipsing about in dreams." The Gaffer was particularly vigilant to make sure Sam did not hear such things or give any credence to their outlandish ways. As it was, he was growing peculiar enough from his association with the Bagginses.

Frodo stood up, leaning one hip against the bench to steady himself and chuckling a bit in remembrance of Pippin's dreadful nightmare. He decided to take a little inventory of his own.

He was not in his snug home on the hill overlooking Avallónë and the sea.

Nor was he back home in the Shire.

He was certainly not in Rivendell.

Neither was he in any sort of Mannish or Elvish place (or Dwarvish for that matter though he was reminded of Moria a little for there was something about the sense of space opening out above him and around him).

He was not outside. At least he didn't think he was outside. He reached out and touched the wall behind him, then sniffed to see if he detected any scent of soil or tree or something that would give him the information he needed. The air was cool and smelled clean; if there was any scent, it was a hint of beeswax.

Right. Inside. Not outside. For whatever that was worth.

He appeared to be alone, which certainly made sense if he were still sleeping. He was alone in many of his dreams, or, if not exactly alone, separate from the other inhabitants of his dreams. That was normal to him; he'd almost stopped wondering why. It _was_ odd that this dream was so tactile. That was unusual, but then, dreams did not necessarily make much sense and if they did, the meaning of them usually came much later.

"Very well," Frodo said aloud. "I am dreaming."

"Then we are experiencing the same dream, Frodo of the Lonely Isle."

Well, he felt that right through him; it made his toes curl up under him, it did.

How strange. He hadn't seen it before, but there _was_ light here. It wasn't close, no, but he could make out a faint radiance far down the hall. For he was in a long, broad hallway; his eyes had adjusted to the gloom enough so that he could see it now. Though he could not see the speaker and could not tell the direction of her voice.

"Do you not wish to speak with me now? You did call me, after all."

"Yes, my lady," Frodo answered. He did not know her voice, and yet it was familiar to him. Perhaps he'd heard it before in his dreams.

"No, you are awake. And I am waiting. I haven't all day, you know. I have much work to do. It never stops. Never. Not yet."

Frodo walked toward the light and the voice, noting with a quick nod of satisfaction that the regular areas of very dark and not quite so dark were indeed the alternation of thick round stone pillars and the arched gaps between them. He thought he caught a gleam of something in the empty spaces—ornaments on the walls, he supposed, perhaps paintings. There were flashes not just of silver and gold but of rich colors, blue and green and glowing crimson.

But he did not dare keep this mysterious lady waiting. Not that he wanted to, for he could still hear her, and her voice was lovely though he realized the word was inadequate. The tone was interesting; there was something in it he could not put his finger on until he had heard more of it.

As he walked, the light grew brighter though never more than that given off by a handful of candles. But even with the increasing illumination, he could not make out the decorations on the walls beyond patches of color. Nor could he make out the lady's words though she continued speaking (or was it singing) in a very soft voice.

When he reached the source of the light, he saw that candles indeed lit the scene and that this new space was not small. This surprised him for he had thought that the area beyond the columned arcade was not deep. Certainly what he had seen during his approach had told him that; though he had not been able to see the details, he had been able to tell that there were walls and color ... something.

But here was an entire room or deep alcove and it stretched for at least ... well, he wasn't sure for the light did not carry so far and the back of the niche (or whatever it was) was lost in shadows.

"Lady?" Frodo asked. Perhaps she was waiting for him, watching from the shadows. But she did not answer.

Frodo entered the room through an arched opening between two pillars. There was no door but it seemed a doorway to him. He took a few steps inside, his feet firm on the smooth stone floor, and stopped several yards inside.

There was no furniture other than square stone pillars holding thick yellow candles; they were set at even intervals along the walls of the long room. Other than that, there was nothing but tapestries hanging on the walls. At first look, then, it seemed that this place was a sort of gallery.

Frodo stepped closer to the tapestry nearest to him, and his mouth fell open for he recognized the subject—his and Bilbo's arrival at Tol Eressëa. There was the harbor at Avallónë, the lamp-lit quay, the grey ship shining with silver. It was very beautiful. He might have thought it was a painting except that the individual threads caught the candlelight in such a fashion that no paint could ever mimic so perfectly. A quick brush of his fingertips over the silky texture affirmed the fact for him.

Though Frodo wanted to just gaze and gaze at this first tapestry until he had every thread of it memorized, nevertheless soon he moved on to look at the others. Each one illustrated his life after he'd left Middle-earth. They alternated on opposite walls, which seemed a little odd but Frodo tucked that question away for later. For now he was content to take in the tapestries and to wonder how, if he was not dreaming, they had come to be here.

Another odd thing was that, as he passed down the room, the candles grew dimmer or brighter, depending on his location, providing enough light to show him the scene he stood before. He could not resist touching each tapestry as he came to it; as with the first one, they were all silky and smooth to the touch, clearly made of finely-woven threads.

Finally, Frodo stood midway between the final two scenes. One appeared to be complete, and the other ... well, he did not understand its making but it appeared to be in the process of being woven though no loom or other tool was present. Each of the vertical warp threads was in place and stretched taut though he saw no wooden frame to hold them tight, but only a small portion of the weft was woven into the warp, and not enough to tell the subject of the scene.

He turned his attention to the complete tapestry, moving so close to it that he could smell the silk threads. His eyes filled with tears as he stared.

"You miss him."

He had not heard her approach; he'd almost forgotten her completely in his wonder. There was no question in her voice, but Frodo gave an answer anyway, without turning his head to look at her. "Yes."

"Was he all you had here?"

"Yes ..." Frodo could have bit his tongue for saying that; he wanted to pull it back that much. Plus it wasn't true, or at least not always true. "No."

"Has he been gone long?"

"Do you not know?" Frodo could not resist saying that.

"I believe I could puzzle it out, but ... well, it is not a detail I usually concern myself with. Once the scene is complete, it is done and over with, at least for me."

Frodo looked hard once more at the scene before him and, even in the midst of his grieving, he wondered at the skill of the tapestry maker to have caught every facet of Bilbo's dying face—the fine web of lines, the sharpness of his cheek bones that age had made all the more prominent, the loving expression in his eyes as he bid Frodo farewell.

When Frodo turned round, he halfway expected that his mysterious Lady would have disappeared again, but there she was, standing tall and slender before him. Though she had to be a very grand person, very high among the great ones, her clothing belied that for she wore a simple dress of what looked to be dark green homespun. It could have been spun and woven in Hobbiton except for the size. Her dark hair was caught in one long braid down her back, the tips of her pointed ears peeking out. Her eyes were grey and the expression on her face solemn.

"Hail, Frodo. I hope I might be of service to you." She bowed her head a little, and her thick braid swung over her shoulder. It was tied at the nape of her neck and at the end of the tail with plain yellow ribbons.

Frodo bowed in return, trying to think of words he could fashion that would make sense. Best start with simple things first. "I mean no disrespect, Lady. May I ask your name?"

She smiled then though it was a grave one, and Frodo wondered if she ever smiled full-hearted. "Do you know of the Halls of Mandos?"

Frodo swallowed hard. "Have I died?"

She held out one hand and touched Frodo on the shoulder with just a light brushing. "No, indeed, though you did call me to you while you slept."

"I ... don't understand."

"Do not worry. I believe we shall puzzle it out together though I shall begin."

"I would be grateful."

"Well, first things first as I always say. Start at the beginning, take a first step, set the first stitch ... and so on. My name is Vairë, and I live here in the Halls of Mandos with my husband, Namo. I weave the stories that you have lived, and I keep them safe here. Have you heard of me?"

There was something in Frodo's memory that was tugging at him, but it was such a thin strand that it slipped through his fingers before he could catch it. He said, "I believe I know a little ... or rather, I think Gandalf told me of you at one time, but I'm afraid I might not recall very well."

She laughed then and, like her smile, it had a solemn ring to it. "I have been told you are most courteous, and I see now that it is true. And what did ... Gandalf ... tell you?" She said the wizard's name slowly, stretching out the short syllables, and seemed to savor the saying of it.

"Do you know him?"

She looked toward the main hallway (at least, Frodo thought it was the main one though he was beginning to wonder if there were any beginning or end to this place) and said softly, "Yes, I do. He has been here before ... more than once."

"But I thought ..." Though he knew quite well that Gandalf had passed through fire and death once, it upset him to think that it had happened more than once.

"Ah," she said and stepped closer to the tapestry of Bilbo's passing. She put out one slim hand and tugged at its bottom, straightening it though to Frodo's eyes it had appeared set perfectly on the wall. Frodo watched her and noticed for the first time that the tips of her fingers were stained with some sort of ink or pigment of many hues. She turned her gaze on Frodo again. "Gandalf has come to these halls once in the usual way, but he has visited me at other times to see what he could of things that have passed in Arda, especially in that part which lies over the Sea. He sought learning of me. I believe he made good use of it. Perhaps I might do the same for you, Frodo."

Frodo understood then, at least, how Gandalf had learned. And now he thought he had a glimmering of why he was here, but just a hint. "You said earlier that I called you. How? I don't remember that."

"But you were unwell, were you not? And you slept uneasily?"

"Yes."

Vairë said nothing but instead crossed the room to the barely-started tapestry. Frodo followed her. She stood very close to the threads and raised her hand to it, her body and the shadow cast by the lit candles shielding the area from Frodo's view. When she stepped aside, she rubbed her hands, clenching and unclenching them as though she were tired.

"There's more now!" Frodo said for he could see that the scene had received some additions and embellishments though it was still far from complete. But he thought he could tell a little about its content now. "It's this room, isn't it?"

Vairë nodded and smiled her grave smile again. "Yes, indeed, for this room is the location where your path will reach another important crossroad."

"What am I to do?"

"Watch ... and listen ... best of all would be for you to understand ..."

"Understand what?"

"Your life on the Lonely Isle. Now that Bilbo has gone ahead, you are at a loss for what you are to do with yourself. Old pains have come back that you thought faded, have they not?"

"Yes."

"Or perhaps they have never really gone away."

"Not completely."

"And you do not know what to do."

"No. I don't. Can't see why I should at the moment."

She raised one eyebrow and neither smiled nor frowned. There was something calming in her. It was very strange, perhaps as strange as his pert response to this lady, but Frodo was not drawn to her as he had been to others he had met in his time in the West. But there was something in her that made his head clear a bit, made him want to turn away from the highs and lows to look at things with an even temper and open eyes.

"I am ready, Lady Vairë," he said.

She smiled a little, turned and walked to the front of the room.

"Why can I ..."

She turned to him. "Yes?"

"You are one of the Guardians." Though Frodo did not ask a question, nevertheless Vairë nodded in affirmation. He trembled a little for it was now being borne in on him exactly who he was seeing and talking to (much more impertinently than a hobbit should in some cases). Still, he had this question and she seemed willing. "I have never met one of the Guardians before though I have been in the West for some years and others I know do see your kind. I thought that was the way of it ..."

"And how would you know whether you had or not?"

Frodo's mouth dropped open at this gentle revenge that Vairë took at his prior impudence.

"Come now. Shall we start at the beginning?" Vairë spoke briskly and stepped quickly toward the first tapestry. Frodo padded after her and looked up at it. Oh, it was so alive; had he even noticed that before? It almost seemed now as if the sea water slapping against the stone quay was actually moving as the waves receded, leaving their bright foam sparkling in the sun. He could just about smell the salt scent, and he had to stop himself from squinting at the brightness of the tall white tower on the hill overlooking Avallónë. Oh, yes, he remembered the beautiful tower which, when he first saw it, reminded him so poignantly of the three on Tower Hill near the borders of the Shire.


	2. The House on the Hill

At first look, it seemed so familiar.

Which was really rather silly since the house was not burrowed proper hobbit-fashion into the side of the hill and the windows weren't round, so there was no way it could be the same. Instead, it was situated on the hill's crest, and a very fair hill it was, high and broad and rounded, carpeted with grass green as the Shire could boast. The lane that led to the house was a gentle winding incline wide enough for a pony cart to pass easily, and it was bordered with round white stones that reminded Frodo of the path to Tom Bombadil's house (though fortunately without any hint of a barrow within near reach). The house's front door was not round, but it was painted a bright green and its top arched with a sensible round curve rather than the elongated fashion preferred by the Elves.

"Is that a Dwarf?" Frodo murmured to Bilbo as they rode up the lane and their new home on the Lonely Isle came into very clear and detailed view.

"Well, it's not an Elf," Bilbo said rather loudly (he was more than a little deaf). "As a matter of fact, I have no idea who it could be. Let's ask him." With that, they drew up to the low front gate and stopped, Frodo pulling gently on the reins and setting the cart's brake.

The stranger seemed not to hear them, for as they got out of the cart and walked up the path, Bilbo leaning heavily on Frodo's arm, he did not turn round or give any indication that he knew they were there. Instead, he continued with his work, which at the moment consisted of putting some finishing touches to the window frame next to the front door. The paint he was dabbing on was as bright green as the door's. From behind, the hobbits saw that he was tall and thick-set, powerful in build.

"Rather tall for a Dwarf, don't you think?" Bilbo said in a stage whisper as they arrived at the front step. _That_ the stranger heard for he turned round and set down his paintbrush on top of the paint pot before straightening up to greet them. Though he was far too tall for a Dwarf, nevertheless any Dwarf would have been proud to have had the long hair and thick curling black beard that spread about his face and down his chest and back. Deep-set eyes reminded Frodo of Gimli and, oddly, even more of the Elves. There was long sight in them. His hands were strong and broad, stained with paint and nicked by hammer and nail.

He bowed. "Welcome to your new home, Little Masters. I am the Builder." His voice was very deep and resonant, befitting someone with such a broad chest. He spoke with an odd accent, saying his words of greeting slowly, as though unaccustomed to speaking the Common Tongue.

"Is that your name?" asked Bilbo, looking up at him with bright eyes, rocking back on his heels in the manner Frodo recognized as sheer interest and overwhelming curiosity.

"You may call me that ... though perhaps you might prefer to call me Hal."

* * *

Hal turned out to be very helpful if not very talkative, though he did let them know that he would be making some final adjustments to their house during their first week or so there. He turned up early every morning, usually as the hobbits were sitting down to first breakfast in their cozy dining nook off the kitchen (cozy for them though Hal had to bend over quite a bit to fit without knocking his head every time he moved). They soon learned to make enough breakfast for all three of them. It turned out that Hal was particularly fond of scones and strawberry jam washed down with a very large mug of strong tea (with four heaping teaspoons of sugar and a good half cup of creamy milk).

"Well, he certainly eats like a Dwarf," Bilbo said to Frodo one day as they were doing the washing up while Hal was staining some book shelves a mellow shade of cherry wood. "Did I ever tell you about the time Bombur ..."

"Shh ..." Frodo answered though it came out more like a bark of laughter. "At least he doesn't stay for supper."

And he didn't. Every day, when the sun began to sink into the west, Hal nodded a farewell as he picked up his tool box and made his way down the path.

As they began to feel a little settled in and not quite so strange, the hobbits found that they both loved to spend time behind the house. While Bilbo was content to sit in a comfortable chair and look about him for a few minutes before nodding off for a nap, Frodo explored their generous expanse of lawn though he did not go beyond its borders, at least not initially. There would be plenty of time for that, and especially to discover what was to be found in the woods that lay round about.

"Going off poking around again, are you?" Bilbo asked one afternoon after they'd been there a week and the house was almost completely fitted out to Hal's satisfaction. "Don't get lost ... and don't go too close to that edge. You're not used to such things."

Frodo stooped and dropped a kiss on Bilbo's forehead. "I'll try not to, Bilbo dear. But I do want to have another look around. I think there might be a path leading down to the shore. I thought I might have seen something yesterday afternoon when I was there."

Bilbo harrumphed a bit but in an understanding sort of way, so Frodo felt encouraged as he walked across the long sloping green lawn that looked out on the sea. From where Bilbo sat, he could see the endless leagues of the water but not the beach or Avallónë further up the coast ... and not the cliffs. It was the cliffs that particularly intrigued Frodo for some reason. The white shore, the green land, even the Elven city that was so tall and white—he had expected all that; more, he had seen them in his dreams.

But he hadn't seen the white cliffs that began exactly where the green lawn ended, tumbling down in steep and jagged slopes until they met the sandy shore. They were so white. Frodo had thought the sand was the cleanest, brightest white he'd ever seen until he saw the cliffs rearing up above the beach, high and sparkling like clear jewels under the sun. They were so different from the dull gray and brown of the Emyn Muil and yet their edges looked as knife-sharp and ragged.

When he reached the edge of the lawn, Frodo turned round to wave at Bilbo, and Bilbo waved back. Hal had come outside and was with him, standing tall and stalwart as a strong old tree, his thumbs tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Good. Bilbo liked talking to him, not that there was a lot of response, but Hal had turned out to be as good a listener as he was a builder of houses and hobbity furniture.

Frodo turned back and knelt on the grass, settling in for a good long watch. There was much to see, not just the cliffs to examine for paths. Avallónë's harbor was in view, and the Elven city rose in green and white terraces above the harbor. Usually, it was not a busy place, so it surprised Frodo to see so many of the Fair Folk clustered at the quays. Then he was that much more surprised when he looked out onto the water and saw that the ship that brought him was leaving, setting out again for Middle-earth he supposed.

He heard Hal settle next to him, but he kept his eyes on the ship, watching its sails fill with a brisk wind. "It's going back there, isn't it?"

"Yes, that is what it is for, though first it will go to Alqualondë and from there set out on its return to mortal lands."

"How long will the ships come and go?"

"Until the Elves are all here or make the final choice to stay there until the end."

"And do you build the ships?"

"No. That is their task."

They watched the departing ship in companionable silence until Bilbo hailed them after a few minutes. "Hoy, Frodo!"

Frodo stood up and, waving at Bilbo, began to jog back to the house. He arrived only slightly out of breath.

"Did you find your path down the cliffs, Frodo?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, don't worry." Bilbo reached out and patted Frodo's hand. "Maybe another day."

* * *

"Gandalf!" Frodo threw open the door. "Come in, come in!"

Hal laughed as Gandalf came into the parlor, stooping as he stepped over the threshold. The wizard wore a familiar (to the hobbits, that is) old gray robe ragged about the hem and carried a crooked staff in his hand. "Gandalf, indeed!" Hal rumbled and ran his fingers through his curling beard. "Is young Olórin still in there somewhere, not to mention Gandalf the White?"

With that, he chuckled again and, gathering his tool box, bowed a farewell and left. They could hear his laughter as he made his way down the path.

Frodo and Bilbo looked at Gandalf, who stood with a bemused expression on his face, looking inward. Eventually Frodo asked, "Do you know him?"

Gandalf started. "Oh, yes, yes I do" he said. "Very helpful sort ... handy."

When he offered no additional information, Frodo moved to another tack. "Will we see you as you were before you went to Middle-earth?"

The bemused expression faded a little, replaced by the familiar laugh lines. Gandalf's eyes twinkled as he took off his tall hat. (How many of those did he have?) He said, "It surprised me, too, that I have not taken on my old form. But ..."

"Yes?" Bilbo said though it sounded more like a snort.

"I seem to have grown accustomed to this ragged old wanderer." He smiled. "I suppose you have a guest room for me? I think I shall stay the night ... if I'm welcome, that is. Though you might have no choice if I don't keep my head ducked. I see you keep the same proportions that you did at Bag End though I suppose that's Hal's doing."

The hobbits shook their heads fondly. Frodo put away Gandalf's hat and staff, and Bilbo put the kettle on to boil.

With thick mugs of tea warming their hands, they looked at each other, each of them a little shy and caught up in his own thoughts. Gandalf broke the silence. "And what shall you call your new home, my dear friends?"

Frodo and Bilbo exchanged a glance and then Bilbo spoke. "Bless my beard ... or bless yours, Gandalf. We haven't had time to think of such a thing, what with settling in and giving Hal carpentry orders. Do you have any ideas, Frodo?"

Frodo settled back in his chair and thought about it for a minute. "I don't know. Part of me would like to make it something from the Shire, but as homely as this house is, we're not in the Shire anymore. I shouldn't like to force things that aren't meant to be, if that makes any sense."

Bilbo nodded. "Yes, my boy, that does to me."

Frodo shook his head and said to Gandalf, "He still calls me his boy."

"How terrible of him, but then he always has been stubborn about some things so I suspect you shall have to let him continue," Gandalf said. He reached out one hand and touched a bright strand of white hair that curled behind Frodo's ear. It was not the only one.

"I _thought we_ were discussing what to name the house," Bilbo said, trying to look stern. "What do you say, Gandalf? You haven't given us your wise opinion."

"Let the name simmer a while, like a good soup does," said Gandalf. "Something will come to one of you when you least expect it."

"Very well," said Bilbo. "And speaking of soup ... Frodo, my middle-aged cousin, don't you have a pot on the fire?"

* * *

A few days later, a good name suggested itself. Actually, it was Hal who suggested it as he was making a final tour of inspection, for he was finished with his work. He did not realize he had suggested it and the hobbits never got the opportunity to tell him because they never saw him again.

As he stood on the front step saying farewell, he patted the door frame and said, "I don't think you'll find another home like this in all the Western lands."

After a goodly amount of nagging by Bilbo, Frodo got out a pot of green paint that Hal left behind and daubed the name on the front gate. When visitors arrived they were greeted by:

> **West Hill  
>  Bilbo and Frodo Baggins**

  
In addition to the lettering, there was a sort of rough twining vine, also painted in green, though to Bilbo it always looked like a blob. But West Hill was a name that both Bilbo and Frodo agreed was truthful. On the one hand, it certainly was in the west and farther west than either of them had ever thought they would be. And on the other hand, it had a hobbity Shire-like sound to it, one that had come naturally.

They knew they had chosen well when they saw the grin on Gandalf's face on his next visit.

But Frodo still had not found the path down the cliffs he thought he'd spied during his first days at West Hill.

* * *

"Did you think it odd that you were just given a house like that and sent off alone?" Vairë asked as she and Frodo stood and looked at the second tapestry, a very fine rendition of West Hill, including a clear depiction of the painted front gate and a rather shadowy one of Hal bending over his tool box.

"A little. Though it's not like they just set us in the cart the first day and sent us on our way as if we were unwelcome visitors. We'd been there some time though I couldn't tell you exactly how long." Frodo laughed. "It's always that way there. Odd." He shook his head and returned to the topic at hand. "I think they realized we wanted to get off by ourselves. Avallónë was more than a little overwhelming, as beautiful as it was and as welcoming as everyone was to us. Even to Bilbo, who'd spent so many years in Rivendell. It really was a kindness ..." Frodo stopped a moment and traced the outline of Hal's tool box picked out in gray and brown threads. "But what I really want to know is who was Hal? He was certainly not an Elf."

"No, indeed! Did he not tell you his name ... or Gandalf, surely you asked him?"

Frodo snorted. "Gandalf? He was no help. Believe me, I tried that pretty quick. Oh, he hasn't changed at all in the matter of doling out information in all the time I've known him."

"And Hal said nothing else?"

"Well," Frodo said, sucking on his lower lip for a minute while thinking back. "When we first met him, he introduced himself and said he was the Builder. Is that what you mean?"

"The Builder? Do you mean the Maker?"

"I don't think so."

"Hm. Perhaps it's a new name he's taken though it could be a translation difficulty. I don't imagine Aulë speaks the Common Tongue very often."

"Aulë!"

"Well, yes, who else? You do not think we would have sent an inexperienced craftsman to build your home, do you, Ring-bearer?"

Frodo's jaw fell open. Vairë, smiling, patted him on the shoulder and moved away to the next tapestry in the series, leaving him to contemplate West Hill and the shadowy figure of Hal which, now that he looked more carefully at it, did not seem quite so indistinct.

As he traced the figure (outlined in silver thread, he noticed), Vairë's voice drifted over to him. "Perhaps you just did not hear him clearly when he introduced himself."

"Hm?"

"I believe the Dwarves like to call him Mahal." With that, Vairë fell silent as she waited for Frodo to finish his contemplation and join her.

As for Frodo, he grinned at the tapestry and spoke under his breath, not that he minded her overhearing him. "Mahal, indeed. Well, perhaps my ears needed a bit of cleaning that day, but I wouldn't take that possibility for a bet."

With a shake of his head, Frodo joined Vairë.


	3. The Garden

The hobbits stayed close to home for the first few weeks after the house was complete, feeling a little shy of going about very often or very far from West Hill. Also, though he did not like to admit it, Bilbo's age was a real factor for he tired easily and his joints pained him if he walked farther than the edge of the back lawn. As for Frodo, he felt very well. The fresh air from the Sea agreed with him, even more so than during the voyage, for he found that he much preferred to have solid ground under his feet as he gazed up at the stars at night or let the kindly sun warm his face during the day.

At regular intervals, a cart appeared from Avallónë (or so he and Bilbo supposed it came from), laden with plenty of provender. They also began to have callers. Elves appeared at their front door most afternoons, bowing and smiling and asking if they were interrupting the hobbits. These Elves always brought gifts with them—a book, a small painting, a graceful bowl filled with red apples, a finely-woven wool blanket. They always stayed for tea though they left soon after, careful not to wear out their welcome.

The hobbits were glad of the company, for they started to grow a little lonely once the first flush of West Hill's newness faded and their everyday life began. Elrond and Galadriel had only stopped at Tol Eressëa for a brief time before continuing their journey further into the west, though what they really missed was Gandalf's company for they felt most comfortable with him. As for Gandalf, well, he turned up from time to time but it appeared that he'd not only become used to his physical incarnation as the Grey Pilgrim, he had also retained his wandering ways. Apparently his long talk with Bombadil had suited him quite well for the foreseeable future in the matter of staying put for longer than a night or two. Or so Frodo decided when he thought about it, though he also wondered if perhaps this was no change from earlier days when there had only been Olórin. Not for the first time (or the last), Frodo thought hard on his friend and advisor as he sat before the fire with Bilbo after supper or stood on the lawn looking out to Sea.

"The West is his home," he mused to himself one night as he strolled behind the house in the bright starlight before bed. "I wonder if he misses Middle-earth ... though probably not near as much as he missed being here all those years. I wonder if he has a house somewhere. Don't know why I've never thought to ask him. It's rather hard to imagine, though, like it was hard to picture Aragorn ever having a real home of his own." The night air was warm, but Frodo shivered as he stepped over the threshold of his new home. And, just as he shut out the night sounds when he closed the kitchen door, so he tried to push away his meandering thoughts of Gandalf and Aragorn and what it must have meant to them to live in exile, without a true home for so long and, in Aragorn's case, without even much hope of one in the future.

He was unsuccessful because his thoughts continued to nag at him while he prepared for bed and even after that, as he blew out his candle and settled back against his soft pillows in his comfortable, warm bed and looked out the window at the full moon until he felt his eyelids grow heavy. "They did not complain, either, at least not to me. And their exile was their choice." He yawned and turned over, away from the light of the moon and stars, sleep pulling him blessedly close now. "As it was mine."

* * *

Frodo looked at the small hoe the smiling Elf held out to him. "Thank you!" he said and bowed before taking it. The wooden handle was smooth and rounded in his palm; it had been well-formed. Though he tried to remember, he could not recall the last time he'd held a hoe (or a rake or a shovel) in his hand. After all, at Brandy Hall there had been many servants and gardeners who had done such things, and as for seeing to the care of Bag End, that had been Sam's duty and pleasure and his Gaffer's before him.

He looked up to find Bilbo grinning at him, his eyes glinting with mischief. "You're not in Hobbiton any more, much less near Bagshot Row. I'm sure you'll become expert at wielding it in no time." He lifted his chin. "After all, we could do with a garden. I believe nasturtians would look very well along the front gate." While their new home was furnished plentifully with green grass, there was little in the way of flowers and trees in the immediate vicinity of the house.

Bilbo turned to the Elf, who was standing by with an uncertain smile on his face, as though he was afraid he'd committed an error of judgment. "Thank you, Lindir. It's just what Frodo needs to keep his hands busy though I don't believe he knows it yet."

Frodo flushed. Of all things, he certainly did not want to give offense to anyone on Tol Eressëa. He'd only been a little surprised at the gift.

Bilbo continued. "It's all very well for me not to garden with my own hands. After all, I've my poetry to work on ... which reminds me. I have a few lines I'd like to go over with you, Lindir. I've been asked to recite at The Silver Blossom next week and I'm terribly stuck over the smallest piece. I could use your help. That is, if you think you can manage to assist with a bit of mortal doggerel."

"It would be my pleasure," Lindir said and bowed. He and Bilbo turned and moved slowly toward the house, the ageless Elf bending solicitously down to the old hobbit, leaving Frodo standing on the back lawn and looking at the wretched hoe in his hands.

"Where am I going to get nasturtian seeds?" he muttered.

He'd spoken a little too quickly. Lindir heard him and turned round, saying very quickly, far more hastily than Frodo had heard him speak before, "Forgive me, Frodo. I forgot to tell you that I have arranged to have someone help you get started on your garden."

He could not tell with absolute certainty because he was too far away, but Frodo could have sworn that Lindir's fair Elvish face turned red as a Hobbiton poppy when he said that.

* * *

"Coming! Coming!" Frodo shouted as he trotted down the hall, stumbling a bit when he tried to jam his arms into the sleeves of his bathrobe. "Botheration ... ouch! ... if that's Gandalf coming at such an hour ... why, it's barely dawn ..." Such muttered comments continued until Frodo arrived at the front door and flung it open.

"Hail and well met, Elf friend! Lindir sent me."

She looked a little like Goldberry and Galadriel and Rose Gamgee all rolled into one delightful being, though that thought came later, when Frodo was more awake. His irritation at being roused so early in the day disappeared and was replaced by delight and embarrassment that the Elf standing before him should meet him for the first time when he was undressed, disheveled and definitely not at his best.

"Please, my lady," Frodo said when he finished gawping at her and remembered his manners enough to bow politely. "Won't you come inside for some tea?" He squinted out at the early morning light. "And perhaps a bite of breakfast?"

"Don't mind if I do," she said. "I've heard that hobbits are excellent cooks."

* * *

"But isn't it too early in the year to plant?" Frodo asked as they walked outside again.

Meril had as good an appetite as Hal (unlike him, her tastes ran to eggs scrambled with mushrooms and large bowls of oatmeal topped with brown sugar, butter and dried currants), but eventually the breakfast drew to an end and Meril began to discuss how she'd been sent by Lindir to help Frodo with his gardening.

"Is it?" Meril raised her eyebrows and looked about, scanning the green ground and then the bright blue sky as though she expected the blades of grass and the puffy white clouds to sing out the answer.

Frodo thought hard for a minute and used his fingers to aid with his calculations. The voyage had taken .... well, not longer than a month he thought or perhaps a little longer. Which brought them to November, say the end of November. Then they'd stayed a couple of weeks in Avallónë before moving to West Hill. And they couldn't have been at West Hill more than a month or so all told, which barely brought them to the end of January or the beginning of February. Drat. Why hadn't he brought a calendar with him from Hobbiton?

A less than delicate "ahem!" reminded him he was not alone. Following in Meril's path, he interrogated the green lawn and then the bright blue sky. The day was warm—not too hot and with just the right amount of coolness from the gentle breeze that blew in from the sea. It had been that way for nearly every day since he and Bilbo had arrived. Oh, it rained and quite often, but that was usually at night and it tended to lull one to sleep with its tender rhythm.

Frodo turned to face Meril. "There aren't seasons here, are there?"

She smiled. "Not in the sense that you know them," she said gently. "I think we might quite safely do some planting as soon as we decide what we want and where we want to put it ... and prepare the ground first, of course."

"Of course!" Frodo laughed. "Meril?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think you could get me some nasturtian seeds?"

She tossed the little packet of seeds so quickly that Frodo barely had enough time to stick out his hand to catch it.

* * *

It was a good thing that Frodo had dressed in the oldest (not to mention the most comfortable) clothes he'd brought with him from the Shire. After a few minutes of digging a new flower bed that would run the length of the low fence at the front of the house, he was sweating under the warm morning sun and his clean linen shirt was smudged with dirt.

"Turn it some more," Meril said, her face nearly as wet with sweat as his. She showed Frodo what she meant, using her long-handled hoe with ease and vigor. "See? The soil must be well-turned before we do any planting."

Frodo stopped for a moment and leaned on his own hoe, breathing hard and blessing the tool's maker. Truly, it had been made to the perfect height for him. When he was able to slow his breathing so that he didn't sound like a forge bellows, he asked, "Do we need to add manure?"

Meril laughed. "What? Here? These aren't mortal lands, Frodo, though they may look it. No, a good turning to break up the roots of the grass, will be enough, unless of course you prefer to add manure. I can arrange it." She resumed working with her hoe, bending over and methodically turning the soil, breathing it in. "Ah, it smells fine, doesn't it? I always say there's nothing quite like the smell of good-turned earth. Better than a glass of cool water ... not that I'd say no to that at the moment."

How odd. There he'd been, annoyed with her dismissal of his sensible suggestion that they add manure to the soil. And now here he was, with tears in his eyes just because of her turn of phrase.

_The smell of good-turned earth._

Meril wasn't the only one he knew who liked well-tended soil, though Frodo suspected that Sam might well have given her a little argument about the matter of adding manure. He also suspected that Sam might well have won the point.

As he trotted back to the house to fetch water for them, Frodo wondered what Sam would make of Meril. He suspected Sam might say something like, "Well, Mr. Frodo, I've seen Elves in Rivendell and in Lorien. I've seen them merry as children and solemn as a tall tree, but I've never met an Elf like your Meril. And never one with a smudge of dirt on her cheek like a Hobbiton lass out tying up bean runners in a kitchen garden."

"And leaves in her hair ... and brown skin instead of pale. Don't forget that, Sam; oh, don't forget that," Frodo murmured under his breath as he made his way back to the front gate, carefully balancing a tray holding a pitcher of water and two mugs. And it really was the most amazing thing. Because Frodo had never seen an Elf with such brown skin.

* * *

When they finished planting the seeds and giving them a good watering, Frodo and Meril retreated to the back yard with tall glasses of cold tea and a plate of shortbread fingers that Frodo had baked the day before. They sat on the lawn, close to where the grass ended and the white cliffs began.

"A fair day's work, Master Baggins," Meril said, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, and for all that sitting straight and tall while she munched on a piece of shortbread. "Are you tired out from your efforts?"

It was possible that there was a muscle or two in Frodo's body that didn't ache, but he was quite sure he could not locate them (and he also suspected that if they didn't ache now, they would in the morning). He also bore a long scratch on his maimed hand, a reminder of the sharp stone he'd encountered when digging up the soil right next to one of the gates. There was dirt beneath his fingernails, and one of his elbows was scraped raw though he could not recall how that had happened. In short, he felt wonderful. Laughing, he said, "Yes, quite tired though I think I'll live."

"Oh, yes, for a good long while, I should think." Meril glanced at him, her face solemn for once, and then turned her head again, facing the water and the sky. "Tell me about your garden at Bag End."

Frodo looked at her but she did not return the look, instead continuing to look out to Sea, pressing her cool glass of tea against her cheek.

It was really quite a prosaic description that Frodo began to give her—how big the property was, what sort of plants there were and how they were arranged. Meril asked no questions but appeared to listen intently for she nodded her head at frequent intervals.

For some reason, in spite of his tiredness, talking about Bag End made Frodo restless, so he stood up and paced about a bit, all the while keeping his eye on the jagged cliffs spread out before him.

"I'm afraid I'm not giving a very good description," he finally said and stopped his pacing, one foot on the grass and the other on the white rock. "Sam's the one you really need to talk to if you want the best idea of Bag End's garden. I don't suppose even Bilbo could do better than Sam could." The stone was smooth under his foot, warm and inviting.

Meril turned to him, and she nearly pierced his heart with the sadness in her eyes. "Why do you look for a path down such a treacherous slope, Frodo? If you wish to return to the Sea or go to the harbor, you have only to walk down the road." She stood up, brushing off her full skirts, and reached out one hand to pull a strand of grass away from Frodo's cheek. He had not even known it was there. "'Tis not so far, after all. I think that is what I shall do myself. Thank you for a most pleasant day."

Frodo was so nonplussed by Meril's words that she was halfway across the lawn before he started to follow her, all his muscles protesting. He spluttered a bit as he walked (trotting being beyond his means for the moment), saying nothing sensible whatsoever even to his own heated brain.

He caught up with her just as she rounded the side of the house. And there Frodo stopped and, his mouth fallen open, stared at the nasturtian vines curling around the fence's plain wooden boards. Bilbo was at the front gate, bent almost in two as he peered at the green vines and ran his fingers over the bright leaves.

"What, no flowers yet? Tcha!" Meril murmured as she walked through the gate and started down the road just as she had told Frodo she would. After a moment, she turned back and waved at them. "These are not mortal lands, my friends," she called. "And remember, the best road is usually the most direct one ... if you can find it, that is."

"Now what on earth does she mean by that?" Bilbo asked but Frodo was still rooted to the ground, staring at the green vines that even before his eyes lengthened and twined around the fence.


	4. Waking Up

"You became a good gardener in the end, didn't you?" Vairë asked, straightening the already even tapestry before stepping back and admiring it.

There was a lot to admire, and not just the thriving nasturtian vines with their bright blossoms of red, yellow and orange. If the scene depicted in the tapestry was true (and there was no reason to suspect that it was not), then West Hill had been not just a green and pleasant place but had become a home filled with all manner of growing things.

Frodo cocked his head and pointed to the portion of the scene showing the kitchen garden. "The tomatoes have always been particularly fine," he said. "I don't know why I didn't think of them right away, but it took several years until I asked Meril for some seedlings."

"And have you enjoyed yourself?"

Though Frodo opened his mouth to answer right away, he found that he could not. Now that the question had been posed, it didn't seem all that straightforward to him. There had been great pleasure and for many reasons. "Yes," he said finally, pulling back from his memory of growing tomatoes at West Hill, though it seemed as if his fingers had grown a little sticky from stroking strong green stems. "Making something flourish ... I enjoyed that. Oh, not that I think I'm a particularly fine gardener on my own. After all, there are special conditions that abide here, as your kinswoman was careful to show me the first time we met." Frodo stroked his chin, smiling at the memory of those alarming nasturtian vines. "Though I do have to say preparing and eating what I've grown is even better."

Vairë smiled. "I would be surprised if you had spoken otherwise."

Frodo's expression grew solemn again. "And there's been the chance to return the favors shown to me and Bilbo by the Elves."

"Yes, indeed," Vairë said, looking for a long minute into Frodo's eyes, and then stepping close to the tapestry, passing one hand across it. "It was unnecessary, but it has been much appreciated.

Frodo smiled and then looked closely at the rewoven tapestry. Sure enough, something new (or perhaps it would be better to say that it was something now recalled in greater detail) appeared in the lower right corner of the hanging: a pony hitched to a cart, Frodo sitting at the front with the reins in his hand.

"I thought you said you never altered a scene once you'd finished it," Frodo said.

A startled smile broke across Vairë's face, and her cheeks grew pink. Frodo could not help enjoying looking at her consternation. She stepped back and shook her head. "Occasionally ... very infrequently, in fact ... but occasionally I find I have neglected to include an important detail." Her expression grew guarded and she gestured with both hands held to her temples, her fingers curved protectively. "Not that the detail is not always here." She dropped her hands to her sides and said, "Tell me about what I added to the scene. Give me the flavor of it."

Frodo's smile broadened. "That was the first time the apple crop came in and I made so many pies and tarts and muffins and breads and ..." Frodo stopped for a moment to catch his breath. "I spent the entire day delivering them." He raised his eyebrows though his gaze was inward. "I've never quite been able to tell whether an Elf's pleasure in receiving something is for the thought behind the present or the thing itself. I suspect I've mostly assumed the first."

"Could it not be both?"

Frodo nodded and they stood together quietly while the light scent of cinnamon and apples baked in a good sugared crust faded and there was only the memory of them stitched into the small rectangle hanging before them.

"Is that all of it?" Vairë asked. "Was it all a joy to you?"

Though Frodo did not answer for a long time, Vairë did not rush him. She stood patiently by the wall until he spoke. "You know it was not, or I would not be here, would I? I wish it had been. It made me sad, too, sometimes."

"Why?"

"Because it reminded me so much of home ... of Hobbiton, that is, my home that was. And even though everything grew here so beautifully and so quickly and it all tasted so good ... do you know the Elves think my potatoes and lettuces are the best in Tol Eressëa? ... even though it all came out so perfectly, still it made me homesick sometimes. I would not have minded a wormy apple every now and then!"

"Or one of your companions from home to help you dig for your taters."

Frodo sighed though not before he repressed a small smile at her use of the term, quite likely the first time one of the Valar had ever uttered the homely word. "You do know how to hit the nail on the head, my lady. I do not mean to be ungrateful, but ... sometimes it doesn't seem quite natural to me," Frodo said quietly. "Sam would say it that way."

"Would he?"

"Oh, yes."

"And he would be right, though _you_ are the thing not quite natural in the setting, are you not?"

"Yes."

"But you chose to come here for healing."

"I know." But that wasn't all of it, was it? "I did not invite myself here, my lady."

"True though you accepted. So I ask you again. Were you healed?"

"If I had been, would I be here with you now?" Frodo bit out the words, angrily this time, and then swallowed hard, pushing away the strong feelings she had stirred up. That feeling ... oh, that feeling Vairë gave him, that feeling of being able to look clearly at his thoughts and actions. Well, sometimes it was not exactly comfortable to be able to do such a thing. It was all very well and good to stare enough at her work until he could literally smell the apple tarts, enough so that his mouth watered from anticipation, but there were darker things to be dredged up from his divided past. As usual, Vairë did not respond to his sharp words, merely stood still looking at him in her solemn way, waiting. Frodo took a deep breath and then continued his answer to her question of whether he had been healed. "Yes, in some ways," he said quietly, lifting his chin. "My bodily wounds stopped troubling me so much beginning with the day I stepped onto Avallónë's quay. I had not expected that, though I soon grew to take it for granted. Though not all ills are of the body, are they?"

Vairë answered with a question of her own. "Did Bilbo help you much?"

"What?"

* * *

The center of music and poetry in Avallónë (and indeed in Tol Eressëa) was to be found at The Silver Blossom. It was not precisely an inn though there were accommodations for travelers and a fine common room for people to gather in. In fact, it had all the qualities of an inn, but for some reason Frodo always hesitated to call it that. He thought long and hard on the matter and had much opportunity for observation, for he and Bilbo visited this pleasant establishment many times over the years. Finally, he decided it was the lack of ale. There was plenty of wine, in both quantity and variety; there was the finest mead he'd ever tasted; but there was no ale on Tol Eressëa. Once Frodo really thought about the lack, it all came clear to him why he could not really call the Silver Blossom an inn.

But it was a merry place even if it was not hobbit-like, and about once a year Bilbo was asked to recite a new poem. This year the subject was to be the white tree Celeborn and its connection, down through the centuries, to the one that now thrived (or so Bilbo and Frodo assumed) in the courtyard of the King in Minas Tirith. For research purposes, Frodo and Bilbo spent many an hour at West Hill discussing the latest scion of Celeborn, of its finding and shape and location in the Citadel. On occasion, Frodo even became rather testy about the matter and more than once wished heartily that Bilbo would either be done with this grilling or, if he could not trust Frodo to provide enough information, to set sail across the Sea and find out himself. If he could find a ship willing to take a doddering, garrulous old hobbit on such a voyage.

But tonight all was forgotten, and Frodo smiled as he and Bilbo were greeted by the group assembled in the common room.

There was something about stepping across the threshold of the Silver Blossom that always quickened Frodo's step and made him breathe light and easy.

"Why, it's like Rivendell's Hall of Fire!" he had said to Bilbo the first night they went there.

The smile of delight on Bilbo's face had spoken his agreement.

But the Silver Blossom was not entirely alike. Elrond's Hall of Fire looked inward, with few doors and no windows, unless one could call the hearth a window. In some ways it was, for Frodo always recalled with great clarity hearing the Lay of Luthien told in full there; all during the recitation he looked into the hearth and watched the bright images come alive before him. Though even more tales and songs of the past had been sung (and would be sung in the ages to come) in the Silver Blossom's common room than in the Hall of Fire, it looked outward.

The Silver Blossom was built on a steep slope; it had large windows and a broad terrace that overlooked the quays. There was also a small walled courtyard behind the building, and from there Frodo could see the Tower of Avallónë gleaming on its hill, tall and fair in the moonlight and the starlight. It was all very blue and silver, so unlike Rivendell, which wove its dreams out of dark, polished wood and firelight. And yet this place cast its own spell, and to Frodo it was even more powerful to look out the windows and let the cool light of sun and stars bathe his face. Here he did not sink into a weighted sleep as he had done in Elrond's house, but that did not mean the enchantment was any less, and certainly not on this night when the speaker was Bilbo, his voice quavering a little with age.

> _Around its trunk the King's hand was clasping.  
> Slender and graceful the tree grew through fearless nights,  
> Yet strong even then, with new life brightening  
> And awakening beneath smooth skin of silver-white._

"Frodo?" Bilbo asked after he finished his recitation and took his smiling bows, retiring to the quiet corner where Frodo sat. His cheeks were pink with exertion and excitement. He sat down next to Frodo and leaned close.

"Yes?" Frodo tried to gather his thoughts. How well Bilbo had done this year!

"I should think the Elves could tell you where you mislaid my Ring, don't you?"

This was not the first time Bilbo had made the suggestion.

"I don't think so, Bilbo."

The rest of the evening crept by while Frodo jammed his maimed hand into his pocket, squeezing his fingers into a tight fist, his fingernails marking his palm with an incomplete pattern.

* * *

It was as fine a Shire morning as Frodo could remember.

He woke a little earlier than usual, though not before Bilbo was up and about. Actually, it was the smell of breakfast cooking that woke him up. His stomach simply demanded that he get out of bed immediately, and he obeyed that sharp command, pulling his clothes on quickly after dousing his face and neck in cool clean water.

"Good morning!" Bilbo said when Frodo trotted into the kitchen, still buttoning up his favorite linen shirt (which was odd since it was new and it usually took him months if not years to grow attached to a piece of clothing). "And a fine one if I do say so myself. It was that lark which lives in that big tree that did it, that woke me up, I should say. It's usually most annoying," Bilbo said as he expertly turned the frying bacon and mushrooms and stirred the gently scrambling eggs, moving with deft rhythm between the two pans. "But for some reason today when she started singing, it just made me hungry!"

Frodo grinned and sat at the table. "Well, it woke me up, and I'm glad," he said, patting his stomach and laughing when it grumbled loudly.

"The lark?" Bilbo said, tossing Frodo a fond look and a smile over his shoulder. "Silly thing."

"No," Frodo answered and waved his hand in the general direction of the stove. "The smell of breakfast! Don't know why it smelled so delicious this morning when it's always so good every day."

"Well, then," Bilbo said, swiveling from the stove to the table, the cast-iron skillet with the eggs in his hand, its handle well-covered with a thick dish cloth. "How about a helping of these to start you off? I have some scones in the oven as well that should just about be ready to take out."

Bacon and mushrooms followed the eggs on Frodo's plate a few seconds later, and then he had to make room for the promised scones, exceptionally fluffy and large ones, Frodo noted with happy approval, and plentifully dotted with currants.

Big mugs of milky tea, butter and jam for the scones, and a bowl of stewed apricots completed the menu, and the pre-breakfast chatter made way for a serious half hour of eating, with nary a word spoken other than requests to pass this or that item.

At length, Bilbo pushed back his chair and sighed. "Ah, that was a proper breakfast, if I do say so myself. What are you plans for today, Frodo?"

Frodo stood up and stretched, chewing on a last bite of jam-loaded scone. "Dishes first, I expect. And then I think I might take a walk to Overhill around lunchtime. I heard the innkeeper there has a new supply of ale. Come with me?"

"That sounds grand," Bilbo said, rummaging around the counter until he pulled out his pipe. He clamped it between his teeth and said, "I think I will. I suspect a good walk will do us some good."

Frodo thought he'd take a quick turn round the garden before settling in to do the dishes (no doubt with a little encouragement from Bilbo if not actual assistance). "I'll be back in a minute."

Busy filling his pipe and getting it lit, Bilbo mumbled something that Frodo didn't catch. Frodo walked through the house to the front door, opened it, stepped outside and breathed in the fresh sea air. Ah, what a view. Really, there was no beating the view from Bag End, homely as it was, with the Sea bright and sparkling in the sunshine and the glimpse of the white shores and the steep cliffs and ...

* * *

Frodo bolted upright in bed, shaking. His heart was beating so hard and fast that he not only felt it, he was sure he heard it, or if not that, the blood pumping in his veins. He leaned back against his pillows and rubbed his hand against his face. There were tears on his cheeks.

He knew there was little chance of falling back to sleep right away, so he did what he'd grown accustomed to doing after the dreams had started. He got up, threw on his robe, and walking as quietly as he could so as not to wake Bilbo, he went out the back and stumbled through the wet grass, heading for the cliffs. He was drawn by the cliffs after he woke from one of these dreams.

It was a quiet night. He'd always thought the deep silence of a Shire night was the epitome of quiet, but he had not come to the West when he thought that. So Frodo stood in the silent night and tried not to think too much. He did not care much for the thoughts that came to him on such nights.

_Coward._

Ran away.

Couldn't do it.

Not that anyone cared.

Prideful.

No, Frodo did not much care for the thoughts that came to him on nights like these or any other time, so he did what he always did to quiet them. First, to calm his mind and heart, he looked out at the Sea and up at the sky, breathing deeply. This night, the moon and stars were out in great force, and they made the cliffs shine like bright opals, which was really the object of his coming outside. To look at the cliffs.

There! Frodo knelt at the very edge of the grass, actually just barely onto the white rock of the cliffs. Oh, it was there! The path: he could see it. He knew there was a path, had known it from his earliest days at West End, when Hal had been with them; how simple after all it was to find it. When morning came, he would come back and begin to explore its ways.

He went back to bed soon after and slept like a log, dreamless as far as he could tell when he woke up to the smell of frying bacon and eggs.

After breakfast, he went to the cliff and looked down, and the path was gone.

He stood for a while in thought and, turning to go into the house, murmured, "All that time in the Emyn Muil, trying to get down and get to that place, that one place I had to get to, that one place I never wanted to go." He stopped at the kitchen door and leaned against it a minute before going in. "And if I did find a path down these cliffs, what would I do? Where would I go? What would be my quest?"

* * *

"Ah, we are lucky, aren't we, Frodo?"

"What do you mean?"

"To be here."

Tears pricked behind his eyelids, but Frodo turned away and busied himself with the kettle while Bilbo nattered on about the night before and the reception of his poem.

"I should fancy a trip into Avallónë today, Frodo. Frodo?"


End file.
